cosmic
by therewithasmile
Summary: "He remembers what her skin used to feel like against his lips, he remembers her little twitches and her scent and her – just her – when he could still call her his." / Rediscovery; when the person in front of him is a familiar stranger. oneshot; complete


_because a s3 is on its way and i was going to wait until i reached this point in 'where do we go from here' but it's a while away. SO._

 _._

There's something about rediscovering her that sneaks the breath from his lungs. His hands roam, freeform, dancing across planes that were once familiar to him. There's new things to discover, he notes: a scar carves its way up her ribs; her wrists feel firmer, as muscle has begun to rope its way around the bone; her lips were still plump, raw – and as the pad of his thumb brushes against her the soft skin there, she feathers an inhale, a small vibration he can feel shivering across his nail.

He's _nervous_. This was a step he didn't know if he could take. His mind conjures questions – was this okay, was this too much, why were there _scars_ if she could alter her appearance at will? – but he refuses to voice them. After all, they're distractions - distractions from the woman that glances up through heavy lashes, green skin tainted red in a very _human_ blush.

He's not sure what to do next. His fingers leave her lips, dragging down past her chin and to her neck. He can feel her swallow, he traces the path with a single digit, carving its way down before resting by her clavicle. And suddenly, her fingers tangle into his. They hold him there, captive, and he almost feels trapped – plunged into the inescapable depths of her gaze. For once, there isn't that odd hum of familiarity in the back of his head, the noise that he's learned to associate as intimacy. The silence only winds him further, makes his palms sweat as she twists their palms until their fingers entwine. And she holds them against her chest, until he can feel the ruffle beat of her heart, passing through their joined hands and landing in sync with his own.

He raises his other hand. She closes her eyes and he _swears_ she leans in, just a little, against the back of his palm as he raises it to her cheek. The jut of her cheekbone is new, too; whereas it was once a hint against her softer, younger cheeks, now it was pronounced. He traces the structure with one knuckle until he reaches her ear. Another breath slips between them – he's not sure whose it was – but their hearts both lurch forwards as he cups an earlobe. He remembers what it used to feel like against his lips, he remembers her little twitches and her scent and her _– just her –_ when he could still call her his.

But he doesn't know the woman in front of him. He doesn't know if she'd still grab a fistful of his shirt if he aimed at the perfect spot, didn't know if she'd still shudder at any single point of contact he'd give her, didn't know the intonation of her voice as his name would cascade from her lips, the breathless grin that would crack on her lips before a self-conscious flush would spread across her cheeks.

He diverts instead. He tucks a stray lock of orange-y hair behind her ear, allowing his fingers to lace through her tresses. The strands fall away like liquid fire, faster and shorter than he remembers, and hand lands softly across a shoulder.

A quiet murmur of his name distracts him, and for a brief second, bewilderment floods his being as he notices a small brimming of liquid in her eyes. It hits him, then – how vulnerable she is. She clutches a hand into a fist over her chest, the other squeezing his, seeking purchase. His breath catches in his throat and he doesn't know, he _doesn't_ know, but he lifts his clumsy hand and tries his best to brush away the tear that had formed against her lashes. And he lifts her face just enough to catch her inhale with his own.

There's no twitch, no little gasp or sigh. His nervousness doesn't melt away like he may have thought it would. Every aching second that passes just makes his heart pound faster, even after he secures his free hand against the small of her back, pulling her closer, _closer._ There's no comfort her, no relaxing into his touch like she'd once done. She's unfamiliar to him; every press as he looks for who she once was, every little moan he can tease out of her mouth, every inch of her skin he feels as he runs his hands up and down and up again – they're all new.

But somehow, he's okay with it.


End file.
